


Far More Terrible

by Seika



Category: Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms
Genre: All Hail The Übermensch, Alternate Universe, Roman Empire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-27
Updated: 2012-07-27
Packaged: 2017-11-10 19:51:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/470021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seika/pseuds/Seika
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A quiet fall but the echoes sound loud indeed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Far More Terrible

It is such a quiet thing, to fall. But far more terrible is to admit it.

Such a realisation may wrack us in our very cores. When the heart has faltered in its course, or when we fall short of the shining ideals we hold ourselves to, it is natural to agonise, and to wish that we could have done better, could have _been_ better.

But that is not the only kind of terror. No-one falls unendingly, and if we so easily ignore the fall itself, the touch of our feet to the abyss' bottom is when awareness often comes. That is the time when the whispers finally come together into a great and knowing shout – it shakes us, it screams to us the truth of ourselves which we had denied. Many still seek to atone, to climb back to the light and love that they had before. Others find the depths and the dark to their liking – and not without reason.

'Ideals' are perfect concepts, beyond the reach of imperfect humanity and its deluded pursuit. When one of our great heroes who had come close to them falls away into the whispering abyss, they are the ones who will understand that futility most clearly. To a few comes despair when they see that all their former life was wasted, and that the ideals are forever out of their reach. But to many comes the joy of release from their doomed quest, and they revel in their new darkness. It is the possibility of going beyond 'good' and 'chivalry' and 'justice' and finding 'self', finding that single ideal which is wholly human and which holds perfection in its imperfection.

And when the rest of humanity looks upon one such, looks upon one who has fallen, one who admits it, and one who loves the fall, then the terror comes upon _us_.

And when Artoria Pendragon admitted her fall, that was the terror of it.

The invaders were the ones who had brought the fall to her, forced her into ever-more ruthless tactics of defence for her kingdom and acclimatised her to such brutalities until they were her first resort instead of her last. So they first experienced the terror of her selfish realisation. Saxon and Angle, Jute and Frisian, the barbarians were slaughtered by a darkened sword – on the battlefield, in their conquered towns and cities, and in their ships as they fled. And her fury was so great that she would not stand even at a restored British kingdom freed of the foreigners, but pursued them back to their homelands and annihilated them. Their armies were slaughtered, their children massacred and their lands set afire with a terrible magical blaze so that only scorched earth remained behind for her to plough with salt. Those we now call the Black Wastes, for no life has grown there since.

Paradoxically, her brutality and anger never seemed to harm her rule at home. The Britons had been thrown from their old lands, forced into the corners of their own country. Artoria overturned that, granting them first victory and then revenge. They _worshipped_ her as the truest Briton. She led them in their battles of retribution; she slaughtered more barbarians than any other; and she showed a vengeful fury surpassing all of her countrymen. It was precisely what they wanted – cold and impartial justice has never had a place in the hearts of those who have been so brutally seiged and conquered in their own lands. Perhaps her careless revealing of her gender even helped her here, since it let the people separate their adored, passionate queen from the distant and frigid king of before. They cast her in the role of Boudicca's heir and her better, a scourge to those who would violate Britain.

But she, and the British, had had their taste of a victorious war, the joy in battle, and the glory that follows after. What was more, neither the people nor their queen were ready to have their newly-regained land threatened again. So when the envoys from Rome came to demand tribute and soldiers from their former province, the armies of the Black Dragon sailed from their isle once more.

In those last days of the Western Empire, barbarian invasions were no uncommon thing - not, I think, since before the birth of Christ had our emperors (who changed every year, or so it seemed) ruled so little territory. The century had already seen Rome sacked twice, and any claims to territory outside Italy were as much fantasy as fact, based almost solely on the hope that concessions of land to our enforced 'allies' would amuse them enough that they would pretend we still controlled such places. The prosperous Romans of the east believed us lost already. Emperor Leo gave some desultory attempts to try and restore us but it was done only for form's sake, and we all knew it.

But this … this was something none of us had seen before, Roman or barbarian. In a month, Gaul was restored to one ruler – the Pendragon. Tribes mustered and the cities fortified, only to fall against the night-dark fey swords of the Dragon and her companions. Lancelot and Gawain, Kay and Bedivere, Percival and Merlin, Artoria and Mordred – these had been blessed by the otherworldly creatures with their armaments, and each of them would sweep aside cohorts by themselves. Some said that the British won favour with the fairies by sacrificing their enemies to them whilst they still lived, and that the vile heathen gods of old were returning to that land. The Age of the Gods, reborn anew on the Dragon's Isle? When we heard the tales coming out of Gaul – you would have thought Artoria alone a match for Ajax and Achilles at once – and married them to what we knew of the Black Wastes, it seemed all too likely.

In the months that followed, more and more warlords led their troops to Gaul, insulted by the ease with which the Britons had slaughtered their kinsmen in the invasion and taken over the province's rich farms. Glory-seeking fools. They were carelessly crushed and the British magi used their heads for druid-fences. Whether it was purely their own magecraft which empowered the barriers, or whether the old gods truly had acknowledged the savage sacrifice, the result was the same – to cross the line of stakes and skulls was to fall dead to the earth. Eventually even the recklessness of young warriors met its match, and the incursions trickled to a stop.

As spring and the campaign season approached again, and the far-seers reported that the British army was ready to march once more, panic swept across all Europe. Their retaking of Britain had been brutal, their annihilation of their oppressors absolute, and their conquest of Gaul unshakeable. It seemed impossible that any of the nations could resist their determination, their loyalty and the sheer power of their leaders. Frantic consultations took place, treasuries were emptied once more, promises of land given out, and a great alliance finally forged.

And so, it all led to that one spot. A battleground in what we used to call Germania Inferior, whilst Rome held a claim on it. I had never seen anything so glorious as our host when we set out on the march there. The vaults of Old Rome and Greece were emptied to face the foe. Our warriors and generals came resplendent in the armour of the most ancient heroes: the shield of Horatius, the silver greaves of wide-ruling Agamemnon, whose make was no longer found in the world, the Olympian helm of Perikles set with amethyst gems entrapping lightning spirits. The weapons were equally awe-inspiring. Here, I saw that a man carried a sword which was alight with blue flame; there, a spear about which green lightning sparked, and in another place, two axes which were carved from diamond. We could not use them to to their fullest, for the great heroes of old were beyond us, as we shall be beyond our descendants, but what use we could make of them was sure to give us victory.

And not only did the Romans of the East and West march, but a hundred thousand barbarians. Whether they had fought for Rome, or against it, they saw the end that would come if they did not stand together with us. Their artifacts were far fewer than ours, since wealth and civilisation gather the ancient craftings, but what they had was no less powerful for that. I heard that Attila's whip had been brought out and presented to the old Vandal King, Genseric, and that it trailed blood wherever it went. Euric of the Goths held the staff of Arminius, who had commanded the Teutoberg Forest itself to crush the forces of Varius in that single disaster of the first Augustus' reign.

As we approached the plain where the Britons had set themselves up for battle, I have no doubt we indeed seemed a grand sight. Some ten to one, we must have outnumbered them, with our feet making the earth groan and sending a dust cloud up to reach Heaven. But, now that I marched amongst the men instead of watching, it was not the arms but the humans whom I took notice of. Humans who choked on the dust as it swirled up, and spat it out of their mouths. Humans who cursed and shoved when a man fell in front of them. Humans who prayed in trembling voices that God might spare them the wrath of the dragon. I felt a little less like a part of some invincible divine host then, and a little more human. More imperfect, more vulnerable, more _terrified_.

The battle itself I cannot recount. No-one can tell the tale of a battle. Many a historian will claim that he can, and draw up some list of formations, numbers and generals, but he has no sense of the sheer chaos that war entails. And that chaos too prevents any man at the battle from telling it. There is a cacophony which rings the ears, drowns out orders and dulls the mind. It is of a thousand parts: men screaming, weapons clashing or tearing flesh, and the sounds of magic – the wind howls like a wolf; fire blazes and then hisses as the water extinguishes it; the earth cracks apart as boulders are torn out, then lightning strikes from the sky to shatter the rock. But it is your sounds which force themselves in. Breath coming too hard and too fast, blood pounding through your body and your thoughts running to absurd subjects as the mind tries to pull itself away from the horror that confronts it. I knew men who fought with a sword through them, and had somehow not known of it amidst the madness of the fight. How then can anyone tell you of a battle?

Still, if I cannot recount it, I can at least hand down my portion of the madness. We had not yet fixed our lines when the Britons attacked. At one moment, Artoria stood to the front and centre of her own formation, and in the next, she had plunged into ours, striking like a battering ram. I, some distance away from her, saw men hurled bodily into the air by the force. Yet our soldiers flung themselves desperately at her, fighting to stop their countries and families being ravaged by her cruelty. She was slowly surrounded: even as she killed one man, two would take his place. I did not see and I cannot imagine the skill it would have taken for her to survive through those few seconds, with all the legends of Europe striking at her.

Nevertheless, she did so. And then the life force of the World was drawn into her, all in a rush. For a moment, you wondered what she could do with it, until night somehow shone in the middle of that crowd. It was not the quiet night of the countryside, lit with the shining stars of heaven. It was not the night of the city, where one can hear the friendly cries of the drunks. It was a feral night from before humanity civilised itself, edged with a bloody red. A crystal sword focusing the human heart … and this is what came of it. Sin indeed did Adam pass to his children!

We had somehow forgotten that blade in our desperation, I suppose, or else we believed that she could not use it in our midst. It had crushed armies and fortresses, but always from afar. Now though, in the very centre of our army, night tore outwards with its blood-edged claw, and a circle of men was swallowed by it. She had not swung to strike at a single sector of the army surrounding her, thus letting us close in again from behind, but spun right around to clear as many as she could. I was just at the edge of the destruction, thrown back and dazed, but I think … I think I saw her _smiling_ at the slaughter she had done. 

And in that moment, the rest attacked. Their king had begun the massacre, but now the Britons were eager to join in. As they charged, the sun's light seemed drawn to a point in their army and was then changed. It was not the darkness which Artoria had wielded, but this white light had the same bloody edge to it. Racing into our lines, it shattered the desperately-created shields of our magi and annihilated another swathe of men. Then their knights were upon us.

We had brought the weapons of heroes to face them, but these men themselves were the heroes, those who stand above mortal men and create immortal legends. To face them, we would have had to form the most disciplined shield-wall that Rome's military had ever made. We would have had to keep our focus on the Pendragon's soldiers even as she tore a part of our army to pieces. We would have had to withstand the loss of thousands of men in seconds to the bloody swords of night and sun, without flinching. We did none of those things and the battle was over almost as soon as it started.

Tribes and legions fled, weakening what little defence we could create. Their cavalry ranged about like wolves, always driving into flanks and backs of formations. The footsoldiers were no less deadly, hurling themselves into the smallest gap and tearing it into a gaping wound that others could fill. And if ever the resistance proved too stubborn, the black knights and their black swords were there, shattering it with their fey power. Cowards fled and the bravest stood; cowards lived and the bravest died, so that all the Eastern Emperor can now muster is an army of chattering teeth and trembling legs.

And I suppose that makes me a coward too, does it not? I lay there after Artoria's attack, pretending to be dead. I moved just once, to pull myself into the concealment of pile of corpses left by Mordred. From there I stared out at the death of Rome, begging of God that I would not be discovered, not be one of those killed on the bloody fields of Germania. The final slaughter still took hours, the most fearful and terrible ones I have ever experienced. But even when that finished, I did not move. Only when night fell did I slip away. Rome was no option: I knew that the ancient city would be overrun within months, as indeed it was. Instead, I made the journey back to my birthplace here, in Constantine's city. Protected by the great walls of Theodosius Augustus, and all the wealth of Asia, I can only pray now that the Black Dragon will break herself here. For if she does not, if that ageless tyrant can tear down even this holy city, what will stop her?

_\- Selected passage from the private chronicle of the minor magus, historian and philosopher Marcus Territus Metus, also given the name of Veritus. Key evidence in his prosecution and execution on charges of treachery and diminishing the majesty of the state. This chronicle and all copies are consigned to the damnatio memoriae in the name of the emperor.  
_

**Author's Note:**

> Nasu owns some stuff, the opening line and title are quoted from KotOR II, and I own some other stuff. That over with, thoughts? It edged a bit too close to purple-prose for my liking, and I worry about that working much less well in longer 'fics than in snips - how did that feel to you? Any good places where a page break/marker would have divided it up well for easier reading? Other thoughts are obviously welcome too.  
> Marcus' name is me being silly, and working in as many Latin synonyms for 'afraid' as possible.  
> Geoffrey of Monmouth gives a reference indicating Arthur's time to have supposedly been about that of the Emperor Leo the Thracian, so he got worked in.  
> To diminish the majesty of the state (often just 'majesty'/maiestas) came to be the way a treason charge was phrased in the Roman Empire. Damnatio memoriae is the damnation of memory, the command that every trace should be scoured from records (paper, carved, anything). In short, the Eastern Roman Empire _really_ doesn't want Marcus' writings to get out.  
>  Since this all came from a relatively plotless idea of 'how terrifying would Saber Alter's army be on the march', the development of rationalisations for Artoria's fall rather surprised me. You can see some discussion [here](http://forums.nrvnqsr.com/showthread.php/2457-Far-More-Terrible), and I have other bits and pieces tucked away in a document, which I'm happy to bring up if people have questions.


End file.
